If I never saw
anything at all, if being were only a way
of attending the present,
could we still be who we are?
Would all the wants and ways
of staying the same
still be available if life were lived in felt?
Goals met and attended
yet not seen,
would they still hold weight?
When art and color and rapid strobe feelings
are put on hold,
does the meaning wane? Do
my words cease to mean
whatever they meant
in the fragile orbs I closed to sleep?
Use these two metaphors in a poem: “an inch of scorn” and “a cradle of beliefs”
It was never easy being the one who was different.
Never a sigh out of place but a gut filled with longing
Somewhere I knew there would answers abound
But I was behind. Blind.
Out of touch.
There were things to say
Bursting to be born from my thoughts
But they wouldn’t have listened.
They would have read their preferred reaction
In their leather bound books of exclusion,
nestling back into the cradle of their belief
Assured that they would come out the winners.
And where it hurt me before,
Shattered the shell I’d constructed
Left open and raw,
Now it was healing.
Replacing the ache for approval,
I look down and sideways,
Never allowing one
Within an inch of my scorn.
There could be another way,
Soothing and warm,
Buttered over with forgiveness and acceptance
But we seem to prefer ice
Sharp words and looks
And separating the different
From the different
In another way.
(sorry for all the writing exercises lately. I’m really trying to jumpstart creative juices.)
Sadly I looked down the stairwell and saw that things would never be the same. I would never see her again, never know what was going on in her mind or my mind with her. We were so disjointed but never when we were together. It was unreal, a swell in the darkness of the many things I didn’t know. I found a chair and made my perch while I wondered where to go from here.
Where do people go when the end of their lives has come? Not when they die, not that, but the point in life when they have nothing left to accomplish or live for. I suppose that’s when people get new dreams. Or buy a red sportscar and find a young mistress.
Is that all this was? Was I just midlife crisising and things were not as bad as they seemed?
I didn’t believe things worked that way. After all, mountains are high but there’s always another side. There’s always somewhere else to go. But I didn’t see that. There wasn’t anywhere else to go for me. Without her, all my hopes had vanished and I was left, soggy and hollow.
She wasn’t a friend. Not a sister, a lover, or my mother or daughter.
day 04- What you imagine paradise to be like
This, my idea of paradise, is one of those things that probably changes from day to day.
Have you ever seen the movie The Lake House? What a terrible movie, but that house was amazing.
Somewhere like that, off the beaten path and with lots of windows. Like, an insane amount of windows.
Airy, big. Always clean. Lots of books and comfortable furniture.
A bedroom with walls of hanging windows (like on High Fidelity, in Lisa Bonet’s house/apartment. Is it weird that I get my decorating ideas from movies?), with a mosquito netting tent over the bed and lots of squishy cushions.
A chef’s kitchen with an island stove and lots of granite. And lots of ice cream.
A tiny room with a desk, a window, and big colored Christmas lights around the top, where no one was allowed to come so I could write.
So maybe it didn’t ask for my dream house, but if that house were real….paradise.
I was looking around the Internet the other day, checking some old bookmarks and reading like I hadn’t done for a while.
In my perusal, I came across a blog from a girl I used to know, at http://zazazu.wordpress.com
She stopped liking me because I was the weird ex-wife, and because Josh said mean things about Twilight because he knew it annoyed her. She and I were a lot alike and I probably wouldn’t have liked me either.
Anyway, she has fun ideas sometimes, and one of them that I’ve been known to share is a love of lists. Except that hers are usually useful I’m sure and mine are not much other than a time suck – like 6,000 things about me or embarrassing fact #392.
So, I’ve decided to make a list like one I found on her aforementioned blog, and thus I present:
the things I want to do before I’m 35
kind of a before-the-bucket bucket list
- Make a blanket. Knitted, crocheted, woven. Some sort of blanket. And a normal person sized blanket, not some damn copout baby blanket.
- Write the book (at least a rough draft) I’ve dreamed of writing for 25 years. First, though, I should probably decide what said book will be about.
- Run some sort of official race. Participate. Who gives two frackity farts about competing, I just want to finish. Without dying or wanting to die.
- Get another tattoo.
- Learn to sew, and do it.
- Make an outfit using said sewing skills.
- Have a home office, even if I have to share.
- Camp for more than two days. I’ve never done that.
- Make and decorate a cake. For real decorated, with…decorations.
- Be paid for writing. In some form. Ad copy, captions, articles…whatever. Just something.
For now, that’s all I’ve got.
It’s May in Mississippi.
It’s supposed to be sweltering and offensive. Sticky and thick.
Instead it’s crisp and brisk, and it feels sideways outside. Cities and homes close to our hearts are in danger of floodwaters, but here it’s like we’re stuck in some weird Novemberish limbo. Socks, jackets. Soup.
It’s not that I have some weird longing for floods or devastation. That’s not it at all.
It’s just that the temperature makes the whole setting feel wrong, twisted, and kind of forgotten, if that makes sense.
And I’ve had a weird few days. There are many things that will never be the same.
So in a way, although the weather is odd and crooked, I suppose it’s extremely apt.